tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66882551502279673942015-09-16T12:21:33.971-07:00The Rants and Ramblings of LockeJeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-48835419069624110842009-10-01T23:28:00.000-07:002009-10-02T11:16:57.126-07:00Our Neighbor JimJim moved in to the neighborhood in the year 2005 with his frail, old mother.<div>Jim's mother passed shortly thereafter.</div><div>Jim was left to the four-bedroom house all alone.</div><div>Jim has never been married.</div><div>Jim is in his late sixties now.</div><div>Jim likes pianos--player pianos, that is.</div><div>Jim bought multiple player pianos of all different ages and sizes and makes.</div><div>Jim filled the house with these pianos.</div><div>Jim listens to these pianos play ragtime tunes every day.</div><div>Jim believes rock music is absolutely horrible.</div><div>Jim thinks rap and hip hop is even more dreadful.</div><div>Jim has a lot of time to dwell on things he hates.</div><div>Jim sits by his front window for most of his day.</div><div>Jim prides himself on being a major contributor to the "Neighborhood Watch" program.</div><div>Jim has four cars--two in the garage, and two in his driveway.</div><div>Jim habitually moves these cars out of the garage and driveway and parks them momentarily in the street.</div><div>Jim finds routine in this daily task.</div><div>Jim takes his sedan out and makes up a reason to drive to the nearest city.</div><div>Jim gets out of the house this way.</div><div>Jim eagerly waits for five o' clock p.m. so that he can stand in his front yard and hand-water his lawn.</div><div>Jim waves down passersby as they stroll past his street address painted on his curb.</div><div>Jim enjoys making his opinions known to his neighbors.</div><div>Jim watches the news on channel 7 and likes to start conversations by saying, "Did you hear about . . ."</div><div>Jim dyes his graying hair jet black, almost purple (but I don't think he knows it).</div><div>Jim sometimes rides his bike, a shiny, red cruiser.</div><div>Jim rides his bike to the mailbox nearly 50 feet from his home.</div><div>Jim places the mail in a basket fixed onto the bike.</div><div>Jim enjoys being snoopy on his bike and subtly peering into other's lives as he pedals.</div><div>Jim hates his young next door neighbors.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-21863087179698811882009-08-07T23:53:00.000-07:002009-08-08T00:21:13.350-07:00Everybody in McDonald's Drive-thru Lane is Dissatisfied.A flying beetle frantically runs into a florescent light located in a dark, dingy McDonald's parking lot and plummets to the black top, backside down. <div><br /></div><div>Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>The beetle whirs and kicks its tiny limbs, shuffling about, circling, struggling to regain an upright position.</div><div><br /></div><div>It takes a beat, a breath. Its shadow dances slowly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>It flails around some more and, still, cannot seem to find its way back on its legs, back in the air.</div><div><br /></div><div>The car at the front of the drive-thru line moves on and the rest of the cars proceed forward. A man complains about a petty order issue--some kind of coupon or receipt thing--and demands to see the manager. The woman in the car behind his grumbles about the man complaining and says, "GOD! Hurry up!" The group of teenagers in the car behind hers are taking "so damn long to order," according to the middle-aged couple in the car behind the teens.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everybody in McDonald's drive-thru lane is dissatisfied.</div><div><br /></div><div>And a flying beetle can't get off its back.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-14597073890446890632009-04-28T19:40:00.000-07:002009-04-28T21:51:03.159-07:00Pooping with Indiana JonesINDIANA JONES! Of course he'd boorishly barge through the door while I sat with the porcelain princess. Of course Indy would with his big, lumbering boots slapping the wet tiles of the restroom floor. I can tell it is him right from this tiny stall, without even seeing his face. You know how? The door slammed the wall and I saw some drywall particles crumble to the floor. I swear, you can tell a lot about a guy by merely observing the way he opens a door. Let me give you a few examples:<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The well-rounded door opener:</span> </div><div>This man doesn't just bump into the door with his body and slither through. He firmly, and precisely, with control, pushes forward and, with hand on door, checks behind him to make sure there are no others who might also need to enter the room. After a thorough check, he enters and makes certain the door does not slam shut behind him. This man usually has a wife and kids. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The jerky, jackass door opener:</span></div><div>This man usually kicks the door open with his foot, swiftly enters and, if somebody is following behind, allows the door to slam upon them. Oftentimes a muffled, quick jab of an apology like, "Oh, sorry, dude" is called back to the victim of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">jackassy</span> door opener. This dude usually drives a car he cannot afford. He might also be wearing sunglasses indoors.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The lackadaisical slug door opener:</span> </div><div>This man, unlike the well-rounded door opener, slowly thrusts his weight upon the door and slips through expelling as little energy as possible. More times than not, he will purposely wait for a well-rounded man to open the door for him as to not use unnecessary energy. This guy usually works for a boss he hates. Ice cream is his good friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, you get what I am talking about now. I'd say Indiana Jones falls somewhere in the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">jerky jackass</span> category of door openers, as I am sure you already assumed. Oh, hold on--I almost forgot--my Indiana Jones is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">not</span> Harrison Ford. I just call this one kid "Indiana Jones" because he wears accessories that I feel the true Indy might wear such as a weathered, brown fedora hat, random holsters with who knows what in them, and a greenish hemp bag around his shoulder. I had the fine pleasure of meeting this chump in a drawing course. He drew <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">anime</span> dragons while the rest of drew live models or still life displays. Yep, that's Indy.</div><div><br /></div><div>He has no idea I am in here right now in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">MY </span>stall, in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">MY</span> restroom! Yes, that's right. I choose my restrooms carefully and claim them. It's part of my routine as I get accustomed to a new environment such as a school campus or work place. Restroom location and quality is one of my highest priorities. In this case, it is my school campus. Pooping is a big deal. On the first day I toured this campus I took a stroll around and found a restroom that met my rigid standards. I find that on most campuses there are a few restrooms that are uniquely hidden and glorious. Nobody knows about them. They are infrequently visited and consequently immaculate. I find them. Pooping is a pleasure in these wonderful, little <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">safe havens</span>. And nobody likes to hear the sounds of other people pooping right next to them, so the more isolated, the better. I had discovered my restroom between two funny walls around a weird corner with a fire exit nobody turns to. It has been perfect until just now. Now, of all people, Indy is in here, jingling metal chains and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">accessories</span> off his body, violently shuffling through the room. And I--I am stuck sitting here waiting for his departure. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-30860652258582610922009-03-15T13:05:00.000-07:002009-03-15T14:30:20.211-07:00Generational GapsHis grandma bought him the Encyclopedia Britannica for his ninth birthday after she found out that his grades were slipping. That's a very "grandma" thing to do. <div><br /></div><div>The 15th edition. 32 volumes.</div><div><br /></div><div>He also got a set of Hot Wheels toy cars, and those plastic, orange tracks you could link together to make all sorts of loops and bends and dips. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He sat in his room and stacked up volume after stiff-spined volume on top of each other and laid out complex Hot Wheels tracks over the Britannica. The die-cast toys sped over "Volume 8: Menage-Ottawa" and ended up curving around a loop to "Volume 29: United-Zoroastrianism."</div><div><br /></div><div>Smart kid.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-39612131246462230572009-02-08T21:22:00.000-08:002009-02-08T22:04:57.655-08:00Beneath the FoldI have a habit of folding a piece of paper after I am done writing or doodling on it. When I am lazy, and my room is messy, I will usually let it fall behind my desk or under my bed, or behind the bookshelf. Sometimes, I will throw these notes in my backpack, and they will settle near the bottom and turn yellow, stiff. Finding these folded pieces of paper later is fun, though. I find it very difficult to throw away an old, folded piece of paper without first peeling apart the crease and exposing the note inside. There is something so much more intriguing about the hidden message. Usually I'll open it up and it will be an old homework assignment or reminder, maybe a small sketch, but sometimes I write some random things that really bring me back to a moment I would have otherwise forgotten completely. I like coming across these folded memories. <div><br /></div><div>I think there are a lot of things that aren't paper that are folded and need to be opened. People are often folded up. You come across them and you can toss 'em aside like an old, yellowed piece of garbage, or you can take the time to uncover a message you might have missed. Sometimes I think I like to fold myself up, and let one or two people uncover things as they find me floating along. I also like to unfold other people. I find a folded piece of paper much more intriguing than a bold billboard. You know what you are going to get from a mile away with the billboard! I like that unexpected treasure in the small fold. I like the unexpected, great or small.</div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-50135072011363858952009-01-27T18:45:00.000-08:002009-01-27T18:57:05.653-08:00You EweHey, ewe.<div><br /></div><div>I like you, ewe.</div><div><br /></div><div>You stand like a ewe should stand.</div><div><br /></div><div>You eat like a ewe should eat.</div><div><br /></div><div>You look like a ewe should look.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good ewe.</div><div><br /></div><div>You ewe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stay ewe.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-23752372083290187392009-01-22T00:39:00.000-08:002009-01-22T02:21:39.887-08:00Hermitage<div><div>When I crawl into this familiar blanket, night after night, and tuck it between these bony knees, it falls into place. It creases along and caresses my form. It translates and adapts to hands folded in a lap. It warms these numb toes, loosens stiff bones. It breathes when I breathe, shifts when I shift, and doesn't leave when I leave. And, snug and protected, I curl my hidden limbs and bury my head deep into the bosom of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">great nature's second course</span>, sweet sleep.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-34007542504010033612009-01-05T22:27:00.000-08:002009-01-06T00:40:43.249-08:00Jimmy Blue HandsI call him Jimmy Blue Hands. I call him that because Jimmy was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">rubbin</span>' his knuckles along the sides of his new dark blue denims the day I sat with him. He was real fidgety and all, couldn't keep himself still. Nervous. A bothered guy. Dyed his hands blue, he rubbed so much. Smoothing the palms of his hands along the tops of his thighs; running his fingers along the seams; scratching his nails against the vertical denim grain; tucking his hands underneath his bottom; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">slappin</span>' his knees like two bony tom-toms; Jimmy Blue Hands, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">yesiree</span>. <div><br /></div><div> I don't know why he was so wound up, really. He was stretched taut like a piano string, though. Yeah, that's right, like an old piano string a child wants to reach in and pluck but can't because this child keeps hearing his father <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">yellin</span>', "Dammit, don't touch those strings! You'll cut your hand off if one snaps! I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tellin</span>' ya!" No, no, we certainly don't want any <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">snappin</span>' strings. That would cause all sorts of problems. The piano would fall out of tune. Things would be shifting all over the place with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">snappin</span>' of that string, not to mention the loss of the curious hand that was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">tuggin</span>' at it! Yes, let's listen to father's admonition and let the old piano sit as it may.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was sitting across from Jimmy Blue in a dark waiting room/lounge/whatever-you-call-it of a dingy tire shop, and it was just him and I in there after a nice old lady was called out to pick up her car. "Janice, your Honda's ready." She stood up and a distinct scent bellowed out of her folded garments and overwhelmed my nostrils. She was wearing perfume that smelled like it came from the bottom of a drug store's 99 cent item clearance bin. It's awful, thick as it hangs in the air. It comes in a gaudy, gold bottle and has one of those old-fashioned lavender puffer-thingamajigs that pumps the dense miasma into the air. It felt like I was breathing in cotton candy. But she was nice. And that's all that matters, right? She was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">nice</span>. She greeted me as I walked into the dingy waiting room. That's nice. That trumps her awful sense of tasteful perfume, I suppose. And Janice, the<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> nice</span> old smelly lady, drove away in her Honda, and then there was rickety <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ol</span>' Jimmy Blue and I, sitting in Janice's fog. Waiting. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Rubby</span> Blue Hands. Fidgety McGee over there in the corner. </div><div><br /></div><div>I picked up a tattered magazine from a pile on the coffee table sitting next to me: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Popular Mechanics. </span>It was five years old. I wondered if the mechanics were still popular. Jimmy was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">shakin</span>' and mumbling words under his breath to himself. The magazine was my comfort as I held it close to my face and tried to tune out. I picked up his nervous tick immediately, though, and started wondering all sorts of things. I had been in the room less than a minute and Jimmy started getting to me. I was in a good mood, too, before my tire blew out in the rain and I had to call a tow truck to rip me off and tow my car 2 miles down the street to this dump shop. But that smelly old lady was nice. There's always that smelly old lady. She gave a soft "hello." I then wondered what she was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">thinkin</span>' when she was in there all <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">alone</span> with Jimmy Blue Hands. I wondered if she talked to him at all. I wondered how long they had been sitting together. I wondered if she said something nasty to him. Something nice? I wondered a lot of things, and then Jimmy stood up and my mind hushed. I kept my nose down and watched him drag himself slowly into the restroom and then shut the door. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Click. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>I heard water rushing and imagined Jimmy's blue hands turning the sink blue leaving a blue ring around the bowl. Washing away the blue physical markings of a blue nervous man. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-24883049816349714082009-01-03T01:52:00.000-08:002009-01-03T12:11:51.541-08:00Bustin' Your Chops<div>Bube and I brought back the chops. Motorhead is appropriate now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzs3mpuuMjUXTCI74kwp_KZ1QTlIVfwuj5si3bVNGsCo_mY6M92nUbcULm-2BTiOxQobKqdsGY4IiyuTTjWcg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' />JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-90954681055859543002009-01-01T10:57:00.000-08:002009-01-01T12:25:22.831-08:00A Clean, Cool Glass of Water Thirty Minutes Before 2009<div>Thirty minutes before we jumped into the year 2009, I drank a glass of clean, cool water. It was the best tasting glass of water of 2008, there's just no doubt about it. I sat there amongst friends, holding my glass, watching the water level sink as I took each sip. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone checked their watches, pulled out their cell phones, peaked over shoulders and asked the person sitting next to them, "Is it time yet?! What time is it?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>My glass of water had gone from full to half-full. I say <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">half-full</span> and not <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">half-empty</span> because that's what you are supposed to say to sound optimistic and upbeat about the coming year.</div><div><br /></div><div>My clean, cool glass of water opened its mouth. It spoke to me with more sagacity and simplicity than any man ever could have. The water of 2008 went into my body and I had plans to let it "out" in 2009. I will never be able to have 2008 water ever again. I was able to carry it into 2009, though. I just had to store it in my body for a short period of time. It would come out as 2009 waste water. Excuse the imagery, but this was my own little, personal New Years project I had created on the spot and just went with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>What does it mean? Well, create your own metaphor. I think I could create several New Years metaphors around drinking a glass of water, and I thought about many of them as I sipped down the water that night.</div><div><br /></div><div>One resolution I have this year, 2009, is to let the seemingly mundane, the ordinary, the humdrum, the routine seep deep into my senses. To become porous like I have never been before. To let them give me lessons. To stop searching for the extravagant and extraordinary as a means of gaining purpose and value. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's funny how much mental and physical wealth a glass of water can give you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-85120251135027359412008-12-30T17:46:00.000-08:002008-12-30T19:48:39.784-08:00Small Talk at the Superior CourtThe Superior Courthouse doesn't really exude superiority. The courthouses near tract developments never do. They are always inconveniently placed in the middle of a business park where the boat and RV companies do whatever boat and RV companies do among several other large warehouses. <div><br /></div><div>What happened to courthouses? They used to build them up dark, concrete and grey. Slick, thick, powerful slabs of concrete, maybe a couple of stoic lion sculptures at the base of a daunting stairway. Superior, you know? Something you might see in Gotham. Something you would see Bruce Wayne walking in front of. No. What we have now is a hollowed out preschool building turned courthouse. We also have a mental health facility and a public library in the same complex of buildings. Down the street, a sports park. Very family oriented. Very friendly. Very <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pre</span>-manufactured. </div><div><br /></div><div>You pull into a parking lot too small filled with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">SUVs</span> too large and families walking with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">McDonald's</span> bags too full. Outside the preschool-- excuse me, the "Superior Courthouse"-- a string of people are lined up, arms folded, citations, papers, and cell phones in hand. The melting pot meets here to deal with the Man. Slowly, we file in.</div><div><br /></div><div>A skateboarder who didn't wear his helmet. A proud mother who plans to dispute a ticket her sixteen year old daughter received last Friday. The sixteen year old on her cell phone, smacking some gum and bantering with a friend about what an idiot "Chad" is. A kid I recognize from high school. A roughed-up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">lookin</span>' landscaper who works at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Pechanga</span> Casino. A woman and her daughter looking at cell phone pictures and laughing. A middle-aged woman violently huffing air and looking at her watch, rubbing her temples, looking toward the sky and mumbling what seem to be small prayers. A man with a funny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lookin</span>' haircut and and a young son with the same funny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">lookin</span>' haircut. A pair of twin girls tapping their feet incessantly. An old man who reads his book out loud and doesn't realize it. And Debra, the tired old lady who is directly behind me in line. </div><div><br /></div><div>Debra wears burgundy scrub pants, those sterile white nursing shoes, a floral smock, and a matching burgundy coat. Her hair is silver and held back with a floral hair clip. She looks like the standard nurse, except she seems way too old. Two glossy, cataract eyes and a sun-beaten face with the marks to prove it. Retired nurse, maybe? One who enjoyed the beach?</div><div><br /></div><div> I saw Debra earlier in the parking lot. Actually, I let her have the open space that was made available when a hot shot backed out his Caddy. I waved her in, and she gave me the head nod of gratitude. I still beat her to the line, though. I am young and she is old with a titanium knee. </div><div><br /></div><div> I know she has a titanium knee because she made sure that I knew standing in long lines is "extremely painful" for her and that she hates it very much. She told me this after she noticed that I was pretty tall and asked if she could stand behind me in order to block her from the sun because she "burns so easily." I laughed. "Of course you can," I said. "I also burn easily." She closely examined my face and said, "Oh, that's right! You sure do." Debra pokes my back with her pudgy fingers and points to the young man a few spots ahead of me. "You're out of fashion," she tells me with a smile. I glance at the young man and notice that he is wearing extremely baggy, loose-fitting pants with a shirt twice the length of my own. I half-laugh. "Oh, ha ha. Well, I guess I am not very cool, but at least I am comfortable," I tell her. She says, "Well, I guess you and I are just the oddballs here, aren't we?" "Yep. Such is life" I say. So, now I know that Debra has a titanium knee, a distaste for the sun and baggy pants, but a love for floral print. I also know she is eager for a little conversation by the way she keeps telling me her thoughts. There are at least thirty-five people in front of us and the line is moving at a grueling pace. "So, were you a bad boy?" Debra asks me ten minutes later. "Ha ha, yes, unfortunately I was caught speeding in a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">construction</span> zone and, well, here I am paying it off. You?" She tells me she ran a stop sign. "Oops," she says. I can't seem to think of anything else to say after I answer her questions or respond to her small statements. A series of half-laughs and a slow turn back in line. I have never been good at small talk. Either I am really going to get to know you, or not at all. Especially in line at a courthouse. Sad, I know, but small talk is just not my thing. Sorry, Debra. I am getting hungry and now that the line is finally inside the courthouse, I am getting stuffy and cranky, too. It has been nearly an hour and a half of standing in line, 4 o' clock, and Debra says, "Are they going to feed us dinner, too?" Half-laugh and, "I sure hope so! I am hungry!" The clerk calls me forward, finally. I look back at Debra and smile and say "Almost your turn."</div><div><br /></div><div>I pay my ticket and begin to walk past maybe fifty people who were behind me. They stare me up and down because they have nothing better to do in that stupid line. I am flapping my receipt and walking with a little more enthusiasm through the gauntlet. I walk to my car and see Debra's purple <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Tercel</span> where I let her take that hot shot's parking space. I stop and think to myself as I put my car in gear, "Debra might go home <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">alone</span> tonight with her titanium knee, her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">distaste</span> for the sun and baggy pants, her love for floral print, and her hungry belly."I think about where I am going: a warm house with a loving family, friends, and food. I think, "Maybe I am the only person Debra will have spoken to today. Maybe I should have let her in a little bit more." </div><div><br /></div><div>I think more.</div>JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-10915113652793434752008-12-26T17:24:00.000-08:002008-12-26T17:58:47.697-08:00I Don't KnowSo, I realized I say "I don't know" as a complete filler in between things that I definitely do "know." Actually, I realized a lot of us have our own "I don't know," whether it be "ummm" or "like" or "so" or even "you know." But "I don't know" has got to be one of the worst filler lines you can have. I will state an opinion and then right after say "I don't know." Ha ha.<br /><br /><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxYB4U7cYeUc8WVkVNQuRv1D73XQyGuXBPEDIi9s-lSywLUSD3TRb02mLZOj3_6AyFhRrE0S1xv3qgi6Nwc9A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' />JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-85643307236295162152008-12-17T15:51:00.000-08:002008-12-17T16:50:21.859-08:00Music That You Forget Is PlayingI want to be music that you forget is playing<br />It does not beg to be heard, but is<br />It is not labored over and exhausting<br />But constructed exactly and carefully<br />Beneath a quilt of external noise, I want to<br />Gently glide between internal thoughts, unknowingly<br />Yet purposely provide pulse and passively<br />Become a foundation for the outer moment<br />Not to distract, but to accompany<br />With rhythm, and color, and valueJeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-44171640435360245872008-12-11T12:24:00.000-08:002008-12-11T14:16:20.121-08:00WowWow.<br />The Wow of my life.<br />Can't help but Wow.<br />Wow when I wake up.<br />Wow when I lay my head down.<br />Wow in my stomach.<br />Wow in my head.<br />Wow when the world is not Wow.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-25850579292062114862008-12-04T16:39:00.000-08:002008-12-04T17:30:36.859-08:00Dear Lenny"Lenny, I wish you would wear your black shoes with that. Those white shoes are so tacky. And the blue shirt--you look so handsome in blue, Lenny. Red makes me feel like you are mad at me. Daddy always came home in red. No red, Lenny. Please change into that blue shirt. Plus, you have those big, blue eyes, Lenny. Oh, you get me every time-- No, no, don't put on that belt. You aren't a cowboy, Lenny! That belt buckle is ridiculous. Are you trying to look poor? Here you go. This will look better. Ah, black, clean. You are such a gentleman! Make sure you shave, Lenny. My parents don't like an unshaven man. Here's the tie I want you to wear. Do you want me to put it on? I hate it when you make the knot too wide. It makes you look proud and your neck is too short. You need to make the knot tidy so that your neck looks longer. I'll do it. Lift up your chin. Ah, that is more like it. The complete package you are, dear. You dress yourself so well. Oh, Lenny, I forgot, you need to shave first! Take that tie off. Why didn't you shave right after you got out of the shower? I know. I know. I kicked you out of the bathroom when you got out. Sorry, Lenny. But you need to shave real quick. You can't have that dirty neck beard. Go ahead, but hurry. We are already running late as it is. Five o' Clock?! Oh, no, Lenny. I told my parents I would meet them in 10 minutes. I will take the white car right now and can I trust you to meet me up with us at, say, 5:30? Lenny, please, you need to be there on time. Shave, and put your clothes on. That's it. Do you remember how I tied the knot? Not too wide, please. I love you."JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-11637302827144269502008-12-03T22:02:00.000-08:002008-12-03T22:32:02.407-08:00Random Memories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5E4DTPv3lDg/STd4s-XPrYI/AAAAAAAAANE/FO5FHZuBz0E/s1600-h/dad-+me-+krissy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5E4DTPv3lDg/STd4s-XPrYI/AAAAAAAAANE/FO5FHZuBz0E/s320/dad-+me-+krissy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275818202537897346" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br />I just remembered that I used to call music "museget" when I was younger. My dad would correct me and say, "no, it's myoo-zik, Jeff." I don't remember exactly when I started saying it correctly. Oh, also, my sis and I used to call Pizza Hut, "Pizza Hunt" for the longest time.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-44549841922888559742008-11-26T17:54:00.000-08:002008-11-26T19:05:01.597-08:00What My Ink MeansI got my first and only tattoo when I accidentally poked myself with the sharpened tip of a yellow Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil. I was in Mrs. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Phillipson's</span> rowdy 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nd</span> grade class. Everybody had their left hand down on a piece of construction paper. Except the couple of lefties; they had their right hand down. It was the week before Thanksgiving and we were supposed to create Thanksgiving cards for our families. Everyone knows that when you trace your hand with your four upper fingers spread apart, the finished product resembles a turkey. That's what everyone was doing: tracing. My pencil broke mid-trace. I barely even got over the top of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pinky</span> with my pencil before "crack!" I hate when that happens. If I have learned anything over the years about drawing lines, it is this: the secret is to be fluid and, once you start, you commit to that line until it is finished. You never stop midway because you will almost always get that awkward little irregularity where you left off. The fluidity is hard to match once you stop, or when your pencil breaks and leaves a nasty graphite heartbreak at the end of, what was to be, a perfect line turkey. Flustered, I marched over to the wall-mounted sharpener with my degenerate pencil in hand. I wasn't nice to this pencil because it wasn't nice to me. I shoved it in the mechanism and gave a few strong turns of the crank. I pulled it and checked my work. Looked pretty good. Then I gingerly touched the tip and the graphite just fell out in my hand. Stupid pencil. Ernesto was standing behind me at this point with his busted pencil, and was giving me an impatient hurried look. Back into the grinder it went. <span style="font-style: italic;">Crank. Crank. Crank. </span>Ah, this time it looked good. The wood that held the graphite in place was flush and secure. This was a new pencil, I tell you. Sharp as a tack. I looked at Ernesto proudly and perambulated around the room a bit, noticing the progress of turkey development around the classroom. It was standard procedure in the elementary classroom to <span style="font-style: italic;">NEVER</span> hold a pen or pencil, or scissors, or anything sharp for that matter, toward yourself or outwards towards others. Always <span style="font-style: italic;">down.</span> That was ingrained within us early and a pretty good life lesson, I'd say. Don't accidentally stab yourself or others. Nice. Well, I don't know what I was thinking, but I was holding my small, new, yellow weapon pointing right at me as I took my seat and, with my hands held close to my stomach, I haphazardly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">thrusted</span> the tip right into the skin above my hip. I looked down and the pencil was suspended in my skin without me holding it. I pulled it out and nobody saw what happened. I finished my turkey. There was a slight imperfection where the pencil failed me before, but it was still a turkey, nevertheless. I now have a small, grayish dot where I stabbed myself to this day. You better believe I was cautious with my pencils, pens, and scissors from that day forward.<br /><br />That's what my tattoo means: DON'T BE A JACKASS.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br />Pretty cool, I think.<br />I could have gotten that or a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">coy fish</span>. Whatever.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-52750401787998307562008-11-24T08:40:00.000-08:002008-11-24T09:35:40.128-08:00Take a Look InsideMy soul is in some sort of coma.<br /><br />My mind is running a nonstop marathon.<br /><br />My body is reacting to the discord.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-15899818257230250542008-11-20T15:44:00.000-08:002008-11-20T16:49:48.652-08:00A Pair of WifeYou can have eight pairs of jeans, but you will always favor one pair more than all of the others; much like a polygamist must feel about his eight wives. What if wives were referred to as "pairs" like jeans are?<span style="font-style: italic;"> He has eight pairs of wives. </span>Now I am second guessing if saying "pairs of jeans" is even grammatically correct. Are jeans are only pairs because they have two legs that are connected, but, for the most part, separate? Scissors and tweezers often fall in the <span style="font-style: italic;">pair</span> category as well. Although, like jeans, they are definitely connected. Anyway, I just realized the jean and wife comparison is a bit faulty because when singular, we say a "pair of jeans," but this sounds funny when used with the singular "wife." <span style="font-style: italic;">A pair of wife?</span> Nope. Unless we changed the singular "wife" to "wives" like we do with "jeans," we are not able to use the jean/wife thingy. Too bad. Maybe we could move even further than just wives. Maybe we could refer to people, in general, as pairs. We all have our two-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sidedness</span>. Or, maybe a pair is a soul and a body. I am a pair. You are a pair. Together, we are two pairs of people. If you wanted to get really confused, you could say "There is a pair of two pairs of people coming over."<br /><br />Yeah, I'm tired.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-21289853041828653632008-11-17T17:16:00.000-08:002008-11-17T17:43:51.359-08:00Opening a Spider-Man Lunch Box with Some British AuthorsI want to go back in time and set a bowl of Fruity Pebbles in front of Lord Byron.<br />I want to go back in time and give a Fruit Roll-Up to John Keats.<br />I want to go back in time and let William Wordsworth have a drink of my Squeeze-it.<br />I want to go back in time and share my Gushers with Samuel Taylor Coleridge.<br /><br />I would very much like to hear what they have to say about my colorful treats. I can only imagine how John Keats would go about describing a fruit roll-up, its taste, its texture, its funny perforated cut-outs of animals or kites or whatever . . . .JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-46205111040681980402008-11-11T17:04:00.000-08:002008-11-13T09:46:25.819-08:00I am glad you are alive. JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-47719792688080275662008-11-04T21:35:00.001-08:002008-11-04T22:32:37.180-08:00AmericaWorldHere's how I see it:<br /><br />I am at AmericaWorld. It's this theme park that's been around for a couple hundred years or so.<br /><br />I just got off this rollercoaster called <span style="font-style: italic;">Bush Whacker</span>. It was intense. Had a lot of twists and unexpected turns. It was also really rough; needed some oil and new parts, clunked around and stalled, but I made it off alive! I heard they were going to shut <span style="font-style: italic;">Bush Whacker</span> down after today. It had a decent run, but people are always wanting something new and exciting. It had its chance to shine. We are hungry for a new thrill!<br /><br />Now I am on my way to this new rollercoaster at AmericaWorld called <span style="font-style: italic;">Obamania!</span> It's huge! It's shiny! Wow! It's daunting, but so intriguing! I am not sure if I can handle it, but everybody's telling me it's AMAZING! I mean I can handle the loops and spins and turns okay, but this has all sorts of new things. Things I have never seen before! I'm up for it, though! Okay, I am getting on! I'll make it out alive. This AmericaWorld employee is strapping me in now. And we're off! Clicking up the ramp, slowly and steadily. Higher and higher. I am on <span style="font-style: italic;">Obamania </span>and there's no stoppin' it now! Up we go! Together! We haven't even taken the first drop yet and there's this excitement in the air. The girl next to me is puking. The guy behind me is screaming ecstatically! The woman in front of me is clinching her hands tightly. The boy up a couple of cars is looking over the edge cautiously. I am just sitting here, taking it all in. A new thrill.<br /><br />I can't wait to ride the next new thing that comes to AmericaWorld! I am sure it will be a doozy! AmericaWorld is known for their ability to create some of the most outrageous rollercoasters this side of the milky way!<br /><br />I would also hate to see AmericaWorld go out of business. But HEY, that NEVER happens, right? Something this good should last forever and ever! <span style="font-style: italic;">Obamania</span> won't get old. It won't have malfunctions. Look at it! It's perfect! It's everything AmericaWorld stands for!JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-70926728681601709912008-11-03T09:17:00.000-08:002008-11-03T09:31:17.527-08:00Wilde Anticipation"This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last. "JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-61969024986210196692008-11-01T12:17:00.000-07:002008-11-01T12:57:05.128-07:00Abandoning ControlControl held his hand firmly, lovingly<br />All of a sudden, he unraveled fingers and let her go<br />"Go sit down over there. I'll be back later tonight," he said.<br />She sat on a bench and watched him disappear, lost<br />Control, lost and alone<br />Hours passed and she waited<br />He came early morning, foggy, and slipped his hand into hers:<br />"I'm back. Did you think I lost you?"JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6688255150227967394.post-85706867759891117142008-10-29T14:24:00.000-07:002008-10-29T15:09:48.637-07:00A Sandy RendezvousWhen I get a speck of dirt in my eye, as I am digging it out, poking, prodding, prying my lids open, flushing the orb under the faucet, I think: Could I be seeing the world more closely than this?<br /><br />Something seemingly insignificant now very significant.<br /><br />A granule of sand maybe a 1/16<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> of a millimeter in diameter has affected me. I have spent special time with a particle of sand. We have connected. We have shared an experience. A strong wind carried this little grain around creation, picked it up from the bottom, and brought it up, danced. I wasn't looking for a dance when we met, but like a relentless woman takes a man by the hand, I was taken and thrown into a dance with the wind and sand <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">swirlers</span>. Unexpected, but unusually fascinating. The dusty devil's twist. With my arms held over my head, eyes squinted, and mouth sealed tight (the sour lemon face), I stood in the middle of a brownish cowboy vortex. Somewhere in the there, among thousands of others just like it, violently dancing, <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> granule of sand slid under my eyelid and made it in. Connected.<br /><br />With my head tilted under the public <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">restroom's</span> faucet, water rushing down the side of my cheek, I spent time with this particle and, although I wanted it out, I couldn't help but <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span> the beauty in how we met. I mean I really did have to <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span> it. There was no way around it. It made its way to my eyeball! Something with such a lack of complexity, aesthetic value, and purpose, without a will, made itself known to me. When I got it out, I stared at the little bastard sitting on my finger tip and smiled.JeffreyLockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02809668463831363814noreply@blogger.com5